Moonchild
by TiTivillus
Summary: "Has it ever occurred to you," Rowena said, a grin spreading on her face. "That love is your weakness?" Hurt!Sam. Cursed!Sam. Protective!BigBro!Dean. Brotherly Feels. Season 13.


**T itle:** Moonchild

 **Summary:** "Has it ever occurred to you," Rowena said, a grin spreading on her face. "That love is your weakness?" Hurt!Sam. Cursed!Sam. Protective!BigBro!Dean. Brotherly Feels. Season 13.

 **Warnings:** Bad language. Spoilers up to 13x09. Vague references to past torture.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own the show or the boys.

* * *

A grin spread over Rowena's sharp features, showing her overly white teeth. Even in the dim light of a stormy night, Dean saw the predatory glimmer in her green eyes, the smug triumph at the bottom of those soulless pools. And suddenly all her motives were laid bare.

She was mocking him, enjoying the leverage she now had over him.

"What kind of mojo did you work on him?" Dean demanded in a voice he barely recognized as his own.

Fire may burn, but fever _consumed_ Sam. He was being eaten from the inside out by a curse that intended to cook him, scorching his usually pale skin an alarming shade of red. Dean had never seen him like this before and the fear of losing Sam bit down hard.

When Rowena didn't answer his question, Dean's patience snapped and he yanked his gun from the back of his jeans, pointing it at her. "I'm not gonna ask again."

Rowena just kept grinning. As she did, Dean swore the temperature in the room fell a little.

"Memory spell," she explained with a not-so-subtle note of pride in her voice. "And a mighty strong one, at that."

"Reverse it," Dean bit out, finger curling around the trigger of his gun.

"I could lift it, I suppose," Rowena wagered. "But this is black magic of the purest kind, dear. I'll need some supplies to make the damage undone."

Dean had to hand it to her, Rowena certainly knew how to save her own hide.

She must have realized that Dean would have never let her walk after their latest— very unexpected – encounter. They would have locked her up, kept her on a short leash, maybe even killed her. But now? Now she was quite literally holding Sammy's life in her hands and that changed _everything._

By casting a spell on Sam, a spell so old and so dark that only a witch of her caliber knew how to reverse it, she was buying herself time.

"Dean?" Sam's confused, weak tone struck a chord somewhere deep in Dean's chest. He turned around to where Sam was tossing and turning on the crappy motel bed, cheeks flushed with a fever that wouldn't stop climbing and something inside of him broke at the sight. "Where's dad?"

Everything inside of Dean clenched tight at the words.

A myriad of emotions shot through him; regret, hurt, anger, worry. He chose to settle on anger and fixed Rowena with a look he reserved specifically for people and creatures who dared to lay hand on Sammy. It was a deadly stare, an expression of pure contempt and derision.

"Dee? When's dad coming home?"

Jesus Christ, Sam sounded like he was five years old. He hadn't called Dean 'Dee' in over three decades. What the hell kinda memory spell did this bitch cast on him?

"It's alright, Sammy," Dean soothed, instinctively referring to his little brother by his nickname like he always did when Sam was hurt and confused. "Dad's fine. He's on a supply run."

The words left a rancid taste in his mouth, crumbled like ash and dirt on his tongue. He hated this, hated that he had to pretend – for even just one second – that their dad was still alive. It was an old wound, but one that would never fully heal. At least not for Dean and to bring John Winchester up in this fucked-up way? To have Sam so out of it, that he thought their dad was still alive? It reminded Dean of why he hated witches so much.

"Wendigo," Sam murmured, a violent shiver wrecking his body. "Did we get it?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, his words directed at his brother, even when his lethal gaze was still fixed on Rowena, gun pointed at her in an unspoken threat. He had no fucking clue what Sam was talking about. "Yeah, we got it."

From what Dean had seen and heard, Sam's memory was totally out of whack. Not only did the curse make him remember various moments of their life in an out-of-order fashion, but – and that was even worse – it mentally reverted Sam to the mental age in which said memory was created.

"'s dad coming come for Christmas?"

Goddamn witch.

Dean's finger twitched around the trigger of his gun. He would kill her slowly, listen to her howl and scream as he set her on fire, frying her extra-crispy just like Lucifer did before.

"I…" Dean halted, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"Dad lied to me. I want _you_ to have it."

Dean locked his jaw as he remembered that particular Christmas morning. The morning in which Sam had proclaimed that he valued Dean above their father, that Dean was 'there' for him when John wasn't. It was a moment Dean himself would remember for the rest of his life. The way Sam had looked when he had handed him the newspaper-wrapped parcel. The way his own heart had throbbed with a love so deep it scared him sometimes, when he had turned the little horned penchant around in his palm, carefully inspecting it before settling it around his neck. _'_ _Thank you, Sam. I- I love it'_

A soft chuckle caused Dean to lock his jaw, eyes sparking with fury. "You think this is funny?"

Rowena smirked over at him. "I think it's endearing. The way you two tend to forget everything and everyone around you when the other's life is endangered."

Sam's lashes fluttered weakly, his pupils rolling from side to side, unseeingly. The shaking was unstoppable, all his layers completely soaked through. "Bobby! Dean! Help! Hey! Hey! Guys! Guys! Help! _Dean!"_

Son of a bitch.

Dean remembered the way Sam's fists had hit the door of Bobby's bunker in fear and desperation. He would never forgive himself from the way he had abandoned his little brother. He should have at least stuck close to Sammy during the detox. When his brother started screaming, when the demon blood caused him to see things that weren't really there. He should have stayed.

"Make it stop," he ground out, motioning at Rowena with his gun. "Make it stop or I'll—"

"Oh please." Rowena took a step closer, her eyes twinkling mischievously up at him. "You and I both know that you are not going to kill me, Dean."

She'd made a solid play. Dean would give her that. Rowena knew them well enough to know their weak spots. She knew that they couldn't risk to lose track of her in the midst of everything else that was going on with Jack and Lucifer and their mom being lost in another dimension. She must have realized that the only way to safe her own hide was to gain some sort of advantage over them. And with Sam in the state he was in and Rowena being the only one capable to help him, Dean's with-killing-bullets were as useless as a foot growing out of someone's shoulder.

"What the hell do you need?" Dean barked out, hating to give in to her request.

"Oh, nothing special," she grinned. "Leaves from a druid-tended loganberry bush, a branch from a stone giant-tended birch tree, a pinch of moon dust…"

Dean's expression turned into a frown. Those were hard to find and very rare. Their best chance at finding them was the bunker and that was a five-hour drive, even if Dean broke every damn speed limit on the way. He gritted his teeth. Bitch was probably lying to weasel her way into their secret lair - the Men of Letters' stronghold. Chuck knows what kind of damage she would be able to do with the ancient ingredients she had just listed.

"Dean," Sam mumbled, cheeks flushed with fever. "You have to watch out for me alright? And if I ever turn into something that I'm not… you have to kill me."

"Sam," Dean pleaded for lack of anything else to say. "It's alright. I always watch out for you. You know I do."

"Your brother is running out of time."

"Shut up," Dean snapped, lowering his gun and grabbing Rowena around the throat. Shoulders squared, chin jutted out, Dean's emerald eyes were on fire as he backed the witch up against the wall, watching her swallow in discomfort and… fear. "I don't want to hear a single word from you unless it somehow contributes to fixing him."

"But—"

"Not. One. Word."

Rowena was smart enough to read into the dangerously low tone in Dean's tone. She gave a curt nod in understanding and Dean stepped away with one more warning glare in her direction before reverting his attention towards his feverish brother.

"Do you think maybe I knew? That I had demon blood in me? And that I wasn't… pure."

Dean closed his eyes, jaw locked so goddamn tight he thought his teeth were going to crack.

 _Keep it together. Sammy needs you._

"We could find a way, all right? I can. I'm gonna save you." It was hard to keep up with whatever the hell was going on in Sam's mind. The flood of memories that was washing through him, wouldn't let up anytime soon. In fact, Dean was pretty sure this was only going to get worse. "She asked _me_ to do it. Please. Just give me the gun."

 _Madison, then._

Dean could still hear the phantom sound of a single shot being fired off in the adjacent room.

Remembered the way ever fiber inside of him had rebelled at the thought of that girl dying because he knew exactly what it would do to Sam.

"Sammy…" Dean sighed. Was it too much to ask for Sam to relive a few good memories for a change?

"Ok, you win. What do I have to do?" Sam's voice came out wrong. Choked-up and desperate. Pleading and Dean didn't have to wait for the rest of it to know what memory this was. "To save Dean. What do you need me to do?"

 _Alright enough._

Dean whirled around and looked at Rowena. He fished a pair of handcuffs from the back of his jeans- angel, demon and witch-proofed- courtesy of his own handiwork. "Put these on. We're leaving. You're riding in the trunk, no complaints, no smartass comment, or I'll make witch persecution look like a trip to Disney World. You understand me?"

"Stop it." Sam's voice was a mere whisper now, sad and cracking and filled with tears. " _Please_. Michael, help me. God, please just— make him stop."

Dean felt sick.

He actually had to fight his own gag reflex at the words.

It took a moment for him to gather his bearings.

Then he bowed down to grab Sam's arm, floppy and useless, before wrapping it around his neck in a supportive hold. He then gently pulled Sam into an upright position and grunted under the dead-weight of his sasquatch body. Time to bail. Dean sure as hell wasn't going to sit around and twiddle his thumbs while Sam relived the worst moments of their life all over again.

"Get going. Don't pull any crap or you're toast, got it?"

"Now is that any way to talk to a—"

"Move!" Dean ordered and yanked on her arm, pulling her forward rough enough to make her stumble. Eventually, she seemed to get the message and with one last, pinched look, she walked out the motel, closely followed by Dean who had one hell of a battle trying to carry his feverish brother.

They must have made quite the picture, a red-haired medieval-dressed witch, a six-feet-tall guy who looked like he spaced out on meth and Dean in the middle of it all. The Impala was a sight for sore eyes, Dean's only source of comfort in a quickly escalating situation. Dean gently leaned Sam against the side of the car, taking just enough time to swipe the sweat-slick strands from Sam's forehead and murmur a few quick reassurances, before he returned his attention to Rowena.

He unlocked the trunk and – in a few practiced moves – lifted their weaponry to make room for the witch. "Get in," he ordered in a rough voice and then shoved a piece of crumpled paper and a pen into her hands. "Write down what you need. Make a list."

Rowena opened her mouth but Dean slammed the trunk shut before she could get anything out.

Next to him, Sam was pale as a ghost, shivering like his whole body and still not _shutting up_.

"This is my life," Sam murmured, eyes skirting over to Dean without really seeing him. "I love it."

Dean snorted, because for once, he couldn't remember what instance of their life his little brother was talking about. He had an inkling that he wasn't part of that particular conversation. He would damn well remember it if Sam had ever said he 'loved' their life. That would be a first.

"But I can't do it without my brother. I don't wanna do it without my brother. And if he's gone, then…" Sam's voice broke off and Dean felt the pain there, the fear of losing someone important.

Was this during the year before Dean's trip to hell? No. Sam wasn't even remotely okay with their lifestyle in the early years. He was just a floppy-haired kid back then, driven by revenge and hoping for normalcy. No, this must have been much more recent.

Dean swallowed thickly, reaching up to cup the side of Sam's face, his thumb gently swiping over the kid's pale face. "Only you Sammy…"

Sam looked at him, really looked at him and Dean could have sworn that there was a glimpse of awareness in his brother's eyes. There was trust in Sam's eyes and Dean realized that in between all those memories, reality must have seeped through the cracks.

Dean's hand lingered on Sam's face for a second longer than necessary, feeling his temperature – hot, still too damn hot – and trying to communicate reassurance through the simply touch. _'I'm here, I've got this. I'm gonna take care of you.'_

Trust Sam to get Dean involved in a chick-flick moment while being cursed and feverish.

"It's Wednesday!" Sam suddenly proclaimed and Dean was a bit startled when his brother lunged forward to clumsily wrap his arms around his neck.

Dean snorted and – when Sam didn't let go – returned the embrace, somewhat hesitantly wrapping his arms around Sam's back, one hand reaching up to cup the back of Sam's head protectively.

It _wasn't_ Wednesday.

But they hadn't hugged in a long time and chances were high that Sam wouldn't remember this.

"Aw, Sam," Dean sighed. He pressed a peck to his brother's forehead, just because he could. "Let's get you fixed up, kiddo."

 **The End.**


End file.
